"Boo-o-o!" was the answer in a deeper base than before.

"Yer out o' tune, ye domned old fool!" says Billy.

"Boo-o-o!" came the response once more.

"Sound yer G, and take that, ye murtherin spalpeen!" said the now thoroughly exasperated musician, dashing his own instrument in the direction of his invisible rival.

Just then poor Billy saw a ferocious-looking pair of eyes glaring at him, and before he had time to add another word, some huge object rushed towards him, struck him a determined blow, and lifting him off his perch sent him into the middle of the road.

The fact is, Billy had wandered very much out of his way, and had mistaken Ward Glazier's barn for his own dwelling. The supposed rival musician was our old acquaintance, "Black-face," the Bull.

Billy picked himself up from the snow, and, regardless of his bruised body and aching bones, steadied himself for a last shot at the enemy.

The little man looked in the direction where he thought his adversary ought to be, and though he could see nothing through the darkness and storm, he shouted out, in accents of blended dignity and contempt:

"May the divil fly away wid ye! Ye may be the sthronger of the two, but, be jabers, yer no museecian!"

How he eventually got home and what were his sentiments regarding the adventure with which he had met, are facts that do not concern this history; but it is quite probable that he wondered as we have often done, that St. Patrick, while engaged in the laudable task of expelling snakes from the soil of the Emerald Isle, did not also provide that such reptiles should keep out of the boots of her sons.

CHAPTER VI.

VISIONS OF THE FUTURE.

The big uncle and the little nephew.--Exchange of ideas between the eccentric Henry Glazier and young Willard.--Inseparable companions.--Willard's early reading.--Favorite authors.--Hero-worship of the first Napoleon and Charles XII. of Sweden.--The genius of good and of evil.--Allen Wight.--A born teacher.--Reverses of fortune.--The shadow on the home.--Willard's resolve to seek his fortune and what came of it.--The sleep under the trees.--The prodigal's return.--"All's well that ends well."

Between Henry Glazier and young Willard a singular friendship had sprung up. The great, six-foot uncle and the quaint, old-fashioned boy were much together.

In the woods and fields, at junketings and corn-huskings, the pair were often seen in grave converse, and while Willard was ever eager to hear the stories of his uncle's mad adventures and queer sc.r.a.pes, Henry Glazier, in turn, would listen with a species of reverent wonder to the boy's recital of striking pa.s.sages of history or of fiction which he had picked up in the course of a varied and desultory reading--a taste for which was developed even at that early age. The volumes to which he had access were few in number, but he had read their pages again and again, and the subjects of which they treated were, for the most part, of just such a character as were calculated to attract the attention of a youth of action rather than of thought.

Among them were "Rollin's Ancient History," "Robinson Crusoe," "The Arabian Nights," "Life of Charles XII. of Sweden," "Kossuth and his Generals," and "Napoleon and his Marshals,"--everything relating to the career of the great Corsican being devoured with the greatest avidity.

He began, of course, by reading the descriptions of battles. All boys do so. But gradually his interest in such exciting events extended to the actors in them, and again to the causes that led to them, and at length the books were read from the preface to the end.

The conversations between the uncle and nephew were far from exercising a good influence over the boy. If Willard related some daring deed from the life of Charles XII. or of the great Napoleon--his own especial hero--his uncle Henry would match it with some equally striking, if less civilized adventure in the forest or upon the river, in which he or some of his whilom a.s.sociates had played the princ.i.p.al part. All this was, to a certain extent, calculated to unsettle the lad's mind for the common, routine duties of a useful existence. Fortunately, however, at about the time that it began to produce that effect, another opposite and more powerful influence was brought to bear upon him which changed the current of his ambition, and turned his attention to matters less exciting in their character, but destined to exert a much greater influence over his future life. I allude to his a.s.sociation with his teacher, Allen Wight.

The small, plain brick school-house at Little York stands there, we believe, to-day as it did then in all its native and naked ugliness.

Such a structure, looking at it aesthetically, is not a cheerful sight to the lover of learning, but at that period it was under the mastership of a mind of no ordinary calibre. From all that we can learn of him, Allen Wight was that remarkable character--a born educator. He did not believe his duty was performed by merely drilling his pupils, parrot-like, to repeat other men's sentiments. He knew that the minds of mortals, particularly if young and fresh, are as diverse in their springs of action as the laws of the universe, and he conceived it to be his duty to study the individual characteristics of each scholar under his charge, as he would have familiarized himself with the notes of a piece of music before he attempted to play it. His method was that of the Jesuit, carried out in a Protestant fashion. In young Glazier he took especial interest. He liked the st.u.r.dy little fellow who, though full of youthful vim, could yet sit down and discuss the difference between a Macedonian phalanx as described by Rollin and a _corps d'armee_ as manoeuvred by Soult, and he determined if possible--to use his own phraseology--"to make a man of him."

His first step was to lead the boy's mind up to a habit of reasoning upon the present and the past, and upon the every day world of practical realities with which he had to do. When this habit had become sufficiently matured in him, the wise teacher told him the story of his own life, with its struggles, its disappointments and its triumphs, thinking thus to stimulate his favorite pupil to greater efforts and better achievements in the path of knowledge. He talked to young Willard as he would have talked to a man, yet with all the gentleness of manner he would have used in addressing a woman. Every incentive which he could place before the boy, every appeal to both heart and brain which he could make, Allen Wight used--as the mechanic would use the lever--to bring out all that was n.o.blest and best in him--to develop all the sleeping possibilities of his young nature.

Ward Glazier had not been as prosperous in his worldly affairs as his patriotism and honesty deserved, and things at the old "Homestead"

looked rather gloomy. Poverty is a fearful darkener of child-life, and while its shadow rarely fell on Willard, who was always at school or roving the woods and fields with his uncle Henry, to his sisters and brothers it frequently presented its dark face and whispered unpleasant prophesies of the future.

Of course it was not that abject kind of poverty which stints the supply of food and fire in a house. It did not still the prattle of the children, or banish childish mirth from the dwelling. It was not the wolf at the door, but the wolf in the dim possible distance when the poor father, bent with age, would perhaps be unable to keep his little flock together. But the boy had never thought of such a possible time.

_His_ visions of the future were of sights to be seen in the great world--of a time when he would be large enough and free enough to accompany his uncle Henry upon some of his wild adventures among civilized or savage races, and of the delights of unlimited books to be read upon subjects most congenial to his mind. He therefore made no allowance for his father's gloomy face and short words, and often thought him stern when he was only sad.

A slight incident, however, changed all this and compelled him to face life not as a dream but as a reality. One evening Willard's father came home very tired and somewhat dispirited by some adverse circ.u.mstances, such as occur in every man's business life at times, and of course he was not in the most pleasant frame of mind to encounter the petty annoyances of a household. Something that Willard said or did, capped the climax of his irritability and he called the boy a fool. It was a very unusual thing for Ward Glazier to speak with even apparent harshness to his children, and the lad felt it, therefore, all the more keenly. He became very thoughtful and silent, and crept off to bed earlier than usual only to lie awake most of the night brooding over the insult, and debating within himself what to do in order to vindicate his outraged dignity. The conclusion at which he finally arrived was that when the morning came, he would run away from home and seek his fortune in the great world. The fact is he had been reading "Robinson Crusoe"

but a day or two previous, and that charming story had made a great impression on his mind. Under its weird influence his vivid imagination conjured up possible scenes of adventure in which he was to emulate the courage and sagacity of that celebrated truant, and eventually come home, as Robinson did, a man full of knowledge with which to astonish the family, and with wealth to lavish on brothers and sisters, and make comfortable the declining years of his parents. "_Then_ his father would not think him a fool," said this youthful logician to himself. His active little brain was too highly stimulated by his great resolve to permit much sleep that night, and his bosom swelled proudly as he thought how bravely he would encounter misfortune and face danger for the sake of the glorious future he saw in the distance. His boyish heart thrilled strangely within him as he pictured to himself how full of amazement his brothers and sisters would be, when they found he had gone forth all alone to seek his fortune. Even the little sleep, therefore, that he obtained, was but a dreamy repet.i.tion of his waking thoughts, and when the first gray streak of dawn told of the coming day, the boy arose and quietly dressing himself for his journey, emerged from the house, pa.s.sed down the avenue under the broad elms and struck the highway. He shivered a little as the chill air of morning touched his cheek, and his ambitious dream did not look quite so glowing and glorious as it had done when snugly ensconced in his comfortable bed, but still he had a consciousness that he was doing something very manly, and he walked on with a firm step and determined heart.

It is true he had no very definite idea of _where_ he was going,--he only thought of doing great things and seeing strange sights. His whole plan of travel was comprehended in the one idea of _going out into the world_. That was all. Accordingly the youth trudged on for miles without weariness,--for his head was still thronged with thick coming fancies of the possible future that lay before him, and for some time the exulting sense of freedom that ever accompanies disenthralment of any kind, thrilled his whole being with a firm resolution to accomplish great things.

At the expiration of a few hours, however, the fatigue involved in so unusual a tramp before breakfast, began to tell upon him, and as he mechanically slackened his pace, his reflections a.s.sumed a less jubilant and less satisfactory character. He had walked nearly fourteen miles and was already footsore. "Going out into the world," began to seem not quite so enchanting a proceeding as it had appeared to be at starting.

For the first time since the idea of "seeking his fortune" had entered his mind, he asked himself _where_ he was to seek it.

The reply to this inquiry was not easy. Meanwhile the sun had mounted high up in the heavens and was shining brightly, the birds were singing their matin songs, and in the roadside pastures the cattle were quietly grazing. It was a peaceful, pastoral scene, but its peace did not enter the heart of the wanderer. Somehow the world did not appear half so attractive in his eyes as it had looked when he stole forth from his father's gate in the cold gray of the morning twilight. His step, therefore, was less elastic and his bearing less a.s.sured now than then, and at length he sat down under a large beech-tree by the roadside, to reflect upon the situation. He began to feel very weary, and the sudden transition from action to repose induced a drowsiness that in a few minutes overcame his waking sense and launched him into the sea of forgetfulness. The young head sank lower and lower on his breast, and finally, sleep ... "that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care,"...

"sore labor's bath, balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course,"

came to him unawares, and for some hours he was totally oblivious of all surroundings.

It was a dreamless sleep, and noon had come when he awoke. For a few moments he was unable to recall where he was or how he had come there, but in a very short time the recollection of everything that had happened to him since the evening before swept over his mind like a flood. Every circ.u.mstance now, however, was viewed in a far different light. Somehow, the provocation which had sent him into the wide world to seek his fortune did not seem half so great as it had seemed only the night before. The example of De Foe's hero was not so completely alluring, and a portion of that history which the evening previous he had not deemed worthy of a thought, now rose vividly before him. He seemed to read again these words:

"My father, a grave, wise man, gave me serious and excellent counsel against what he saw was my design. He told me it was for men of desperate fortunes on the one hand, or of aspiring superior fortunes on the other, who went abroad upon adventures, to rise by enterprise and make themselves famous in undertakings of a nature out of the common road: that these things were all either too far above me, or too far below me: that mine was the middle state or what might be called the upper station of humble life, which he had found by long experience was the best state in the world, the most suited to human happiness. The wise man gave his testimony to this when he prayed to have 'neither poverty nor riches.'" And then came the thought that all that Robinson ever gained in fame or fortune, failed to still the quiet but terrible whisper of his conscience whenever he thought of those he had abandoned for a roving life. So intently did he think upon these things, he seemed actually to behold the wanderer upon his sea-girt island with lawless Will Atkins and the gentle French priest beside him, while the words of the repentant mutineer seemed to be hissed into his ear:--"No, sir, I did not cut his throat, but I cut the throat of all his comforts. I shortened his days and I broke his heart by the most ungrateful, unnatural return, for the most tender and affectionate treatment that father ever gave or child could receive." Young Willard could not but remember that _his_ parents had been most kind and tender, that _his_ father had lavished upon him during all the years of his childhood a most prodigal wealth of affection: and the one harsh epithet he had received seemed as nothing among the mult.i.tude of kind and loving words that had never been withheld from him. His heart told him that something deeper than any ordinary woe would darken his mother's quiet face when she beheld his empty chair and realized that he had gone, perhaps never to return, without one farewell word to her. Such reflections as these, that he wondered had not occurred to him before, now took possession of his mind and, impelled by their influence, he arose and slowly started back towards home. As he came within sight of the old place he saw his father in the distance reaping, and the sight filled him with gladness.

"From the top of the road, through the gap was seen Down a zigzag road cut up by rills, The velvet valley cradled between Dark double ridges of 'elm' clad hills; And just beyond, on the sunniest slope, With its windows aglint in the sunset warm, In the spot where he first knew life and hope, Was the dear old house of the 'Homestead' farm."

But he was not just then in a frame of mind to meet the parental eye, and he therefore skirted round a piece of woods which concealed him from his father's view and reaching the door un.o.bserved, crept into the house.

Though his absence had been discovered, and its cause, if not known, at least shrewdly suspected, his father and mother in their reception of him very wisely ignored all knowledge of his truancy and treated the young prodigal with such unusual marks of kindness and indulgence, that he was completely melted, and felt, with keen remorse, that he had been upon the eve of becoming a most wretched ingrate. The lesson of the experiment was not lost upon him, and he never again tried the foolish venture.

CHAPTER VII.

WILLARD GLAZIER AT HOME.

Out of boyhood.--Days of adolescence.--True family pride.--Schemes for the future.--Willard as a temperance advocate.--Watering his grandfather's whiskey.--The pump behind the hill. The sleigh-ride by night.--The "shakedown" at Edwards.--Intoxicated by tobacco fumes.--The return ride.--Landed in a snow-bank.--Good-bye horses and sleigh!--Plodding through the snow.

Ward Glazier--putting his theories to the test of practice--believed it best to allow the error of his son to work out its own punishment, without adding a word to indicate that he knew it had been committed.

The wisdom of such reticence is not often recognized by parents placed in similar circ.u.mstances, but it would perhaps be better for the children if it were. At the same time the father thought it expedient to apprise Allen Wight of the matter. That gentleman readily acquiescing in his plans, saw in the recoil which would probably succeed such an escapade in the mind of a sensitive and generous boy, the opportunity he sought to arouse him to a sense of the duties that lay before him in his future career, in living a useful and worthy life.

One afternoon, therefore, when they were enjoying a quiet chat after school hours, he managed--without the slightest allusion to the runaway freak--to turn the conversation to the subject of "self-made men." Not, be it understood, that species of fungi who only love their maker, because being

"_Self_-made, _self_-trained, _self_-satisfied,"

they are

"Themselves their only daily boast and pride."

Not the Randall Leslies, or the Peter Firkins of the world or that other

"Score of Peter Funks, Of the mock-mining stamp, who deal in chunks Of confidence, ores and metals as examples And sell the bowels of the earth by samples;"

but that higher race who have achieved n.o.ble things despite all the drawbacks of poverty and friendlessness.